


Oh, Fortuna!

by scorpiod



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blow Jobs, Continental Hotel (John Wick), First Time, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Injured John Wick, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-John Wick (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-21 08:47:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19999147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/pseuds/scorpiod
Summary: John gets injured, and turns to Winston for safe harbor. Winston makes sure he's given nothing but the best care.





	Oh, Fortuna!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Corvidology](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvidology/gifts).



John Wick ends up on the doorstep of his hotel, bleeding out, riddled with gunshot wounds, just barely conscious enough to croak out his name before passing out.

 _Well, then_ , Winston thinks. Already an eventful day. 

Charon finds him, passed out on the steps for them to find. He passes on the relevant information to Winston: no one in pursuit, no one following him, nothing on the cameras. Just John, half dead, dragging himself to the safety of his doorstep, seeking asylum with his last breath. 

Winston has John discreetly taken to an empty room, one set aside for moments such as these, still outfitted like one of his average hotel rooms but with enough medical equipment to save a life. The doctor they have on call is one of the best for their line of work, and Winston would spare no expense for John Wick.

“Does he have a next of kin?” The doctor asks, already waiting for their arrival, tools ready. 

_Do any of us?_

The sound of John’s heart is faint. There is blood all over Winston’s hands, from carrying him, Charon assisting. John had been shockingly heavy to carry, given his slender form--from his body weight, to all the weapons still hidden in his heavy, bullet proof suit. 

“Is that a concern?” Winston asks, steepling his hands. “You think he won't make it?”

The doctor looks dubious, glancing down at John--pale, bloody, unconscious. Shockingly fragile, for a man such as he--it was disconcerting, if Winston were honest with himself. But only to himself. 

Wisely, the doctor says nothing, simply begins to hook him up the IV, pulling out his instruments for bullet removal, for the surgery, the wound cleaning and the anesthesia. 

Winston smiles and claps him on the shoulder, using his bloody hand where John had bled on him. It's not a threat, but it is a firm squeeze. A reminder. “This is John Wick. He’ll outlast us all.” 

The doctor chuckles, getting to work, pushing his glasses up with a gloved hand. “Yes. I suppose even the devil needs help sometimes.”

Winston stays then--lingering in the background like some ghost, waiting for signs of life, for something more than the blinks and spikes of a machine. 

That's just his right as owner and proprietor, to keep an eye on his guests. Make sure they live. 

_If you insist,_ Charon says to him later, with the smallest of smiles. Winston does not acknowledge him.

***

When he falls asleep that night, he dreams of the first time he saw John. He was a part of Viggo's entourage, standing out only because his face was soft, and beautiful, in a way no one else in Viggo's crew was--pale like a porcelain doll, high cheekbones, and dark, assessing eyes. He seemed almost too young to be there, working for Viggo, like he should be starting college rather than shooting men on behalf of gangsters. Winston had seen many up and comers, trying to get in the good gracers with the mafia, or the High Table if they were ambitious. Most die, and die sooner than later.

“What's your name?” Winston asked the young man, unable to help himself, curiosity getting the better of him. John blinked, once, twice, like he was startled to be addressed directly, out of all the assassins Viggo had hired as bodyguards that day, but he barely showed it beyond a twitch of his eyelashes. 

“John,” he said finally. No last name. John didn't add _Wick_ to his moniker until years later. 

Winston smirked. An obviously fake name. But Winston wouldn't be gouache about it. They all play a part.

In real life, nothing happened that day, Viggo’s paranoia for naught. Winston wouldn't see John’s talent for murder until later. But in his dream John turns into a tiger, and devours everyone in the room, enemy and employer alike, as if they were all prey to be consumed at the end of the day. 

_I always pegged you for a wolf_ , Winston tells the tiger, but even as he said it, he knew it was wrong. Wolves thrive in packs, and John has always been his own man, even right from the beginning. 

The tiger John Wick had been meets his eyes, his muzzle bloody, and turns away from him.

***

John is and out of consciousness when Winston visits.

“Can you hear me, John? Can you?” 

“He's heavily sedated,” the doctor tells him, his eyebrows narrowing in annoyance, which in turn makes Winston more irritated with him than usual. He doesn't think he's being overly concerned, checking in on one of their best clients. If John were to perish in this hotel, things could get very ugly. 

The heartbeat monitor beats steadily and a surge of pride leaps through Winston, pleased with himself for getting John the best care. “The surgery was a success, but he won't be able to tell you anything. He needs his rest.” 

Winston ignores him. He inches closer to John, watching him on the bed, seemingly dead to the world, eyes closed. 

It's several years later since their first meeting, and John was further and further away from being a young man he first saw with Viggo. He didn't look so dangerous now--pale and wane with blood loss. 

(Normally, Winston would say it's a luxury to die in your sleep but somehow he doesn't think John would want that. John would want to look death in the eye before greeting it with either open arms or one last bullet)

“John? Jonathan? Are you alive?”

As if conjuring Baba Yaga himself, John's eyes snap open. The skin around his right eye is heavily bruised and dark. His nose seemed broken but that'll heal, with a long enough stay here. There were more injuries, down the length of his body, patched up bullet wounds that'll take weeks to heal. 

“You are a real lucky son of a bitch, you know that?” 

John, his mouth pulling up at the corners in a not-quite a smirk, flips him off.

Winston can't help the laugh he barks out, relief and warmth flooding through him. 

“We make our own luck,” John mumbles, so soft and to himself that Winston almost thinks he imagined it, before turning his head on the pillow and falling back asleep.

***

“You were stabbed,” he points out.

“I know, Winston.”

“And shot.” 

“It won't be the first and it won't be the last, Winston,” John says, in an infuriatingly patient voice. He slowly stands up from the bed and walks around gingerly, one careful footstep after another, searching for his jacket. Winston can tell it pains him, just to move, but he hides his pain well. He was dressed in grey sweats and a white undershirt that the doctor gave him, and not much else--barefoot and all. It’s the most he's seen of John’s skin, tattoos peeking out in tantalizing bits. 

“If that knife were a few _centimeters_ to the right, you would have bled out before you got to the doorstep.”

John chuckles. “They were amateurs, Winston. I'm still here.”

“Amatures shouldn't get the best of you like this,” Winston said, pursing his lips tightly. There's a spark of something there that isn't quite anger, that he wouldn't call fear, humming under his words. Winston would never be as crass as to raise his voice. “I thought you were the _Baba Yaga_.”

Perhaps he's being harsh. Perhaps he should back down. 

John sighs, head hanging down, hair falling into his face. It was getting greasy and he needed a shower. “I didn't pick that name,” he says, sounding quite tired, but he doesn't argue. 

Winston sighs, nods, acquiescing to whatever argument this was. That flare of temper, he has no right to it. He has no right to John,and no right to worry about him, to lecture about how he does his job. If someone paid John enough money to kill him--well, John may do him the courtesy of giving him advanced notice at least, but that's that. 

Neither of them have any right to each other, not in this life.

Still, he reaches out, offering John his his hand. He groans a hold of John, by the arms at first, gently, then his shoulder. 

“Let me help,” he says. “You shouldn't leave us just yet.”

Us, as in the hotel, that's what Winston means. John frowns at him, glancing down, eyebrows knitting as they walk down the hall. 

He doesn't ask where they're going. Instead he says, “You don't have to do this.”

John does not specify what he means, leaving for Winston to divine that meaning all by himself. 

“You're in my care,” he stresses. Not the Continental. _His_. “I will do as I’ve always done.”

What he means is _stay longer. Don't leave._

John leans some of his weight on him. “You know me, Winston; I’d go stir crazy, standing still in one place,” he says, giving Bonnie arguement. 

Winston smiles, mostly to himself. 

He takes John to his own private bathroom, a large pristine marble room in the Continental, adjacent to his bedroom and almost the size of an actual bedroom, with a tub big enough for several people. 

A tub big enough to fit the two of them, but Winston doesn't think about that. 

He carefully disentangles himself from John, and goes to turn the water on. 

“You really don't have to do that,” John says. When Winston turns to him, he is struggling with his shirt--there are bandages over his left arm and it makes things like removing your shirt difficult, at least, not without painkillers. He is still frightfully pale. “I can run my own water.”

Winston smirks. Without saying a word, he walks over and gently places a hand over the side of his abdomen, where he was stabbed. 

John winces; he doesn't shrink away from his touch, despite the pain, but the point is made. 

Winston shakes his head. “John. I don't think you're in a position to argue.”

He should ask. That would be proper. Polite. Winston is unfailingly polite, even if he's putting a bullet in someone. But some strange possessive instinct makes him reach for the hem of John’s white tank. 

“Let me,” is all he says and John _does_ , acquiesce, stops arguing with him for once. Lifts his arms up for him, and Winston gently divests him of his shirt. 

He tries not to stare. It's impossible. 

John is riddled with scars from a long hard life, scars and tattoos--some old, some recent, some clearly military. The entire history of John Wick could be read on his body, things John will never tell anyone out loud. Scar tissue lines his body and across tattoos like a code. His shoulder cross tattoo is struck through with a scar that Winston can’t tell if it came from a knife or bullet. A wolf adorns his other shoulder. Winston resists the urge to touch every single one but his eyes are drawn to the bold large tattoo in the center of his back, like a target: the cross, clasping hands, _fortis Fortuna adiuvat_. 

Winston thinks about how he’s never seen John quite so vulnerable. It's a heady sensation, gets stuck in the back of his throat. He is struck by an obscene urge to run his fingers all over his tattoos, leave his own sort of mark on him, as permanent and lasting as ink. 

He suddenly craves brandy or bourbon, an old fashioned. Something to take the edge off. The edge off _what_ , he doesn't want to think about it. 

“Fortune favors the bold,” he mutters, then turns to take his leave. He wonders if John needs help removing his pants as well, but he’ll let John handle some sweatpants. 

“That's not what it says,” John says softly. 

“What?” Winston turns back. 

John faces him, a curious look on his face. His hands are on the hem of his pants, as if he's about to pull them down. It makes for a lovely image and some rather sordid thoughts tumble through his head. 

“You're thinking of _fortes fortuna juvat_ ,” he says. “My tattoo is something else.”

Winston cocks an eyebrow, a smile pulling at his lips. “Correcting my Latin now? So what does it say then?”

John’s lips pull at the edges. Winston thinks it's a smile. 

“Fortune will come aid the strong ones,” he says. “More or less.”

Winston lets that sink in, mulling the words over in his head. Fitting, he thinks. 

“You're the strong one, in that case.”

John shakes his head. “It's not about me. Not just me. It's a reminder--fortune doesn't favor the bold. You have to work for it.”

 _We make our own luck_ , Winston remembers. _You have to earn it_.

On some level, it strikes him that John is telling him far more than just the meaning of his tattoo. 

But he nods and turns to leave. 

“Winston,” John says softly, stopping him. “You don't have to leave.” A note that sounds almost pleading is in his voice but Winston doesn't dare assume. 

Winston smiles instead. “Now John, I have a bourbon calling my name. You're welcome to join me later,” he says. 

John opens his mouth and Winston turns away before he can say anything. 

“You want to be careful,” Winston adds, as he closes the door, cutting off John. “Don't make me redress your wounds.”

***

Winston once offered John a job offer.

_Work for me. Here, at the Continental. I know it's a waste of your talents, but..._

It wasn't really a job offer. It was a retirement, of sorts. A way out of an early grave. 

John didn't take it, of course. Death doesn't retire. He said he didn't feel right, belonging to a single organization, one home base of operations. 

But that's what John is; someone else’s ill intent, pointed in a direction. Bang.

He wanted to ask John if he ever had regrets, about what and who he's chosen to serve, but he always bites his tongue. 

That kind of question is far too sentimental for either of them.

***

“This is your room,” John mentions afterwards, clean and fresh from the shower, hair sticking to the back of his neck. He says it very simply, stating a fact. _This is your room. This is your bed. This is your life._

He's standing in Winston’s private quarters, in a full silk robe Winston loaned him. Absolutely covered in the trappings of Winston’s life. 

“It is,” Winston says. He is mindlessly fluffing the pillows he doesn't need. They are already perfect. 

“You don't have to--”

“But I'm going to,” Winston says. “The other rooms are taken. It's a very busy day at the continental.”

John pointedly doesn't say anything. The man has almost no tells at this point, even when recovering from being stabbed. 

He sits on the bed, a little stiffly, as if in pain or discomfort. “Where will you sleep?” He asks. His throat is hoarse. 

The glow of his bedside lamp casts a rather lovely shadow over John’s face, highlighting the curves his face, his cheekbone and sharp angles. 

Winston allows himself a laugh. “You worry too much for me, John. I have a great manner of my own secrets in this hotel.”

John's eyes sparkle then and his mouth curves into a grin. There were dark circles under his eyes, one darker than the other with purplish bruising. It gave him a gaunt look, like he could be an emissary of death, come for them all--but his eyes were alive and bright right now, if only for Winston.

_Isn't that a heavy thought?_

Winston turns to leave and--

John's hand is on his wrist. On his sleeve, rather. His long slender fingers are weak but grasp hard enough to stay his hand. 

“Wait,” he says. 

Winston cocks an eyebrow. “Anything else you need, John?” He asks, stepping closer, looking down on John. 

The hand on his sleeve slides down his cuff links until they're grasping his wrist now, his fingers surprisingly warm for someone who was on death’s doorstep mere days ago. 

He always imagined John sensed his attraction--but politely ignored it, like many other things. And that was all fine--he could imagine the number of people who'd throw themselves at John, must be in the triple digits. The kindest thing one could do is politely ignore it, and continue as usual. 

“You don't have to leave,” John says softly. The smallests of whispers, a gasp of breath. Barely a sound on the air. 

Winston smiles. “Where would you have me stay?”

John meets his eyes. “Here.”

The moment falls over them both, washing over them both. Winston feels his pulse quicken. He wonders if John’s is as well, if a splash of adrenaline had hit them both. 

“You don't have to repay me, John,” he says carefully. He keeps his tone wry and casual. He licks his lips. He longs for bourbon, to wash this down easier, but he'd have to pull away from John to grab his glass. 

“I'm not repaying anything,” John says. 

When Winston thought of John on his bed, he imagined him sprawled in resplendent glory, like a tiger lounging around--not sitting down, black and and blue and red, and making himself oh so vulnerable. 

“What would you have me do?” Winston asks, soft as a death rattle. “Tend to your every wound? Every scar on your body?”

On impulse, he reaches out, running his fingertips alongside John’s collarbone. Distantly, he wondered how much punishment this body had taken, how often it needed to repair itself. 

John lets out a soft quiet sigh. It's the loudest thing in the room. It's as good as a scream to him. Everything feels suddenly very sharp and vivid and unreal all at once. He can't wait to hear what John says next. 

“Just,” he starts. His voice shakes with an uncharacteristic tremble and Winston wonders if John is _shy_ , if he's always like this when it comes to intimacy or if Winston has that effect on him. Either answer is fascinating. “Stay with me. Touch me.”

 _Touch me_ falls heavy in Winston’s guts and settles deep in his belly where lust and desire is a hot living thing. It's as better than a fine wine, the way it makes him feel drunk and stupid. 

He forgets about his drink. John’s eyes are alert and watching him. Waiting. 

“Lie down,” he orders. John immediately does as he's told, pulling his legs in and laying back in the bed--slowly, gingerly, trying not to strain his injuries. 

Winston finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed, next to John, finds himself running his fingers through the fine damp strands of John’s hair. John doesn't stop him. He closes his eyes and sighs, like it's a relief, leaning into the touch. It's almost too much for Winston, to even let himself touch John like this. 

This has no future. _John_ has no future, much as he would like to change that. Everything is far too precarious. 

“What do you want, John?” He asks again, with a silken soft voice, sweet as honey. 

His hands hover over John’s robe, now askew on his hips and barely covering him, erection tenting and straining his briefs. He runs his fingers down his collarbone, then bare chest, then down over his bare thighs--suddenly he is overwhelmed and consumed by the sight of John’s bare skin, his near total nudity. 

John tightens his jaw as he touches him. His body is a tense line, holding back, always holding himself steady until he's perfect like a marble statue 

The first time he saw John kill, it set his insides on fire--it was like seeing him for the first time. Winston wanted nothing more but to touch him then as well, a brief hit flash of desired he forced down

It feels a little like that, right now--seeing John for the first time.

“May I?” Winston asks, hands on his briefs, prepared for this to go sideways, to end, for John to change his mind. 

John nods and subtly but inescapably spreads his legs wider--drawing attention to his cock. 

Winston licks his lips. Slowly, he peels the briefs off him, revealing the rest of him. John's cock is as beautiful as he is, slick with precome and uncircumcised. Winston wants to touch, to immediately take in every inch of John down his throat and feel every bit of skin and flesh and hair and scar tissue. 

But he holds himself steady. He is nothing if not patient. He can wait so much longer, if need be. Winston is good at the long game. 

John’s eyes are dark and flickering with anticipation, and his normally pale skin is flushed pink.

_Is John blushing? How strange to have made the famed assassin blush before him._

“I can stop,” Winston says, allowing for that release valve, that break in tension. _I can leave._

John meets his eyes. “Don't stop. I don't want you to stop.”

Winston smirks, he can't help it. A laugh bubbles out of his chest, filled with illicit fondness. He maneuvers closer, positioning himself more comfortably on the bed, his blankets soft beneath his knees as he kneels in front of John, John’s legs blanketed between his own. Winston lays his hands on his thigh and John shudders before him. 

“Why Jonathan, even you wouldn't turn down a blowjob.”

John opens his mouth, wide and pink, perhaps to protest, but whatever he was going to say or do dies on his lips the moment Winston pulls the foreskin of his cock back, bending down, and wraps his lips around the head of John’s cock. He is velvety smooth, the taste of him heady on his tongue. 

Winston is immediately rewarded by a low, throaty groan--a sound both familiar and unlike anything he's heard; John has grunted and groaned in pain, in combat, in makeshift hospital beds, but this was different. Intimate and for Winston’s ears alone. It was quite possibly the loudest he's heard John be. It was an experience he felt like hoarding to himself, as if he were a dragon and John were a glittering treasure. 

He drags his tongue down and across his shaft experimentally, then presses against the slit; John trembles under him, Winston can feel his body tensing up with the _need_ to thrust. He allows himself to just savor the taste and warmth of him in his mouth, before he delicately, carefully, swallows John whole. 

It’s been quite a while since he's done this but Winston takes great care to be a good lover. He refuses to be subpar. 

John cries out, a sharp sound that he immediately cuts off mid-cry, like he cannot allow himself to relax even now. Even when he so clearly wants to unfold before him. 

This close, John fills his senses--he smells like _Winston_ , covered up in continental hotel scent and his own sheets, his own soaps and shampoos from the bath. Coarse pubic hair is pressing against the skin of his chin. John’s thighs are tense, tight as piano wire under him, the muscles straining under his hands as he holds his legs and hips down. His cock feels larger than expected in his mouth, stretching out his cheeks, tasting of salt and bitterness. He notices, even this close (or perhaps especially because he was this close), that John’s hands are gripping the sheets tightly, twisting the soft fabric in his fingers. 

To hold himself back, Winston knows. Even in his weakened state, John is a considerate lover--not that he would expect anything less. 

Winston pulls off momentarily, making a slight pop sound with his mouth. His cock is slick with his spit, making the head all the more shiny and redder. Winston had a point, something he wanted to say, a reason he stopped, but he’s distracted now. He can't help himself, he wraps his hand around John’s cock and strokes once, twice, just to feel it twitch in his hand, the slick heat of it, his spit making it easier. 

John makes a low whining noise like a wounded animal, eyes rolling shut, mouth red and parted open. It's quite the picture. 

“John,” he addresses him. They lock eyes. John’s skin is flushed, cheeks to chest, and the dark of his eyes is totally dilated. His hair sticks to his temples. He's beautiful. 

Winston, idly, indulgently, thinks how nice John would look as a permanent part of the Continental, recalling that old job offer. There are other reasons he wants John around more often, but almost all of them are selfish and it's hard to remember them with John spread out before him. 

Winston remembers what he wanted to say. “I'm asking you to get off. You don't have to treat me like I'm delicate.”

Then, following an impulse, Winston reaches out, stroking John’s chest. He's careful with his bandaged wound, fingers running idly over chest hair and lingering on his dark nipples. John luxuriates in it, shuddering and closing his eyes, leaning into his touch. 

Winston smiles and goes back to his cock--no longer deep throating, but taking his slow sweet time with him; he laps up the slickness from the head, running his tongue down the length of him, cupping his balls in his hands. John shakes above him and lets out a low needy moan, trembling and reaching for Winston’s hair. His curls his fingers in and simply _holds on_ , not urging or pushing for more but holding on for dear life. 

Winston closes his eyes and forgets about everything but the sheer state of John Wick for a moment--he drowns himself in him, lets his throat relax, lets nothing but John fill him up. 

“ _Please_ ,” John asks. Winston wonders if he'd beg. Winston wonders if he should make him beg. 

“Please,” he says again, breathless. The momentary image that flashes in his mind of John on his knees makes Winston groan with an obscene kind of pleasure, and that's it--hot spurts of John’s come fill his mouth. John arches into him, knees bending and hips bucking, nearly choking Winston. He lets go of his hair and Winston glances up to see he has muffled his own cry with the meat of his hand, biting down. 

_Ah, what a pity_ , he thinks. 

It's been a while since Winston’s done this, but he manages to swallow all of his come until only a bit leaks from the side of his mouth. 

He pulls off John’s cock. John makes another soft cry, no longer muffled, his voice thick with satisfaction. Winston tucks him back into his underwear. He reaches over to his bed stand, pulling out the drawer, and grabs a silk napkin he keeps there, wiping his mouth with it. 

“Winston,” John says. His voice is raw, sandpaper rough. John is looking up at him when Winston turns his eyes back to him. His expression somehow both amazed--eyes boring into him as if he'd never seen him before--and yet lazily satisfied, on the bed sprawled all loose limbed and comfortable. Just like his fantasy. 

Winston thinks, perhaps he's the only person in the world to have disarmed John Wick like this. To have taken him to this point, undone. 

Winston chuckles. “You should take it easy--all that bucking around like a bronco. You're going to hurt yourself.”

It's just some gentle ribbing but John doesn't seem to hear him. He reaches up, places a sweaty palm on his cheek, commands Winston’s attention right then and there. 

“John,” Winston breathes out. John does not pull away his gaze and it holds Winston steady in its grip. He lets out a small shudder when John reaches down, cupping his erection through his trousers. Winston is borderline straddling him, he realizes--he'd stopped blowing John and pulled away, but he’s still on his knees before him, legs around him, and gotten far closer to him, almost chest to chest. 

“Let me,” John says, shaking. 

Winston runs a hand through John’s hair--carding his fingers through it, gently letting his fingers press against his scalp.

John shudders, closes eyes as if that's too much contact. His grip doesn't tighten but he presses his palm into Winston’s crotch and it's enough to make him tremble as well. 

“Another time, John,” he says gently, lightly pushing on his shoulders. “Rest. That's what you need. I'll stay if you like, but rest.”

John shakes his head. “I'm not asking to repay a favor,” he says, in that quiet, but firm tone of his. “I want to see you come too.”

Winston takes a deep breath. “ _John_ ,” he groans, low in his belly. 

John reaches for him then, his fingers landing on the back of his head, in his hair, mirroring Winston’s hands, the two of them grasping at each other. Winston isn't sure what happens, if John pulls him closer or if he comes closer, if he closes the gap himself. All he knows is the room is bathed in a lovely orange glow, and John Wick is kissing him and his hand is on his cock, slipping inside his clothes. His grip is clumsy, a bad angle, but Winston still moans at the first hard stroke, then the next, and the next. 

Something about John’s lips on him open him up, touch something deep inside and break down whatever restraint he had left. Winston opens his mouth for him, breathes him in, and allows himself to be lost in the feel of John’s tongue against his and his warm hand on his cock. Allows his hands to tangle in John’s hair and thrust his cock into his grip and bite down on his bottom lip when he spills all over him, moaning into each other's mouths.

John is near close to sleeping afterwards and Winston changes into his sleep clothes, hyper aware of John’s presence , of his eyes on him. Winston entertains the thought of leaving him here for the night. He could leave once John is asleep, keep this time to one night only. Sharing his bed with him feels far too intimate, on top of everything else. It's asking for too much (and Winston isn't sure which of them is doing the asking). 

“I won't ask you to stay,” John says. “But I would like you to.”

Winston should leave but he can't quite bring himself to do so. He wants to be fully selfish for a night as well.

***

Once, when he was still getting to know him, he handed John a drink, sat next to him at his bar, and asked him what he wanted out of life.

John didn't answer. He sat in relative silence of the Continental, his bartender distracted and John’s eyes distant. He was dressed to the nines and Winston wondered if he was heading to a job or just returned from one. If there was even a difference. 

And once Winston had given up on an answer, feeling he should leave John to his melancholy, touching him softly on the shoulder as he passed him by--

“Peace,” John whispered, so low, as if he were ashamed of it. 

Winston hadn't known how to take it, to hear that coming from a man as pitiless as John Wick. It only made him want to dig at John more. 

“What a pity,” Winston said, and genuinely meant it. “That is the one thing our kind aren't allowed.”

John chuckled. His lips curved in a soft smile. He held up his glass, gesturing towards Winston. “To sweet dreams, then?”

They clinked glasses. “Sweet dreams, indeed, Jonathan.”


End file.
